Ghost
by JC4ever
Summary: Is she real or a ghost? For Jack and Claire fans


Ghost

A woman's voice read softly, "Once upon a time, there was a prince and princess in the land of Manhattan, and their names were Jack and Claire. In spite of differences in age and viewpoints, the prince and princess fell totally in love. But the failing called Pride ran strong in their characters, and they couldn't see the precious gift they had in each other. One day, Fate took a hand in their lives, changing them both forever…"

Jack McCoy began his day early, as always. He was reading through the pile of case files on his desk, sorting which were to go to trial and which could be pled out. He glanced at his watch. He was due in court in 20 minutes. He gulped the last of his coffee and stood up, pulling on his navy suit coat. He grabbed his briefcase and motioned to his current assistant, Serena Southerlyn to follow him.

The two lawyers fell into step together, their conversation restricted to the case at hand. Jack McCoy at fifty-six was still a handsome man, but his face looked older than his years. Serena was certainly not immune to his good looks, but she failed to see the attraction a number of his previous assistants had had for him. The man she worked with was passionate about the law, but seldom talked about his life outside Hogan Place. He mentioned his grown daughter in passing, and even more rarely mentioned growing up in Chicago, the son of a cop. She knew that he was casually dating a history professor from NYU. But he was mostly business, which suited her fine. 

Jack's face was a study in bitterness this morning. He never relished the kind of case they were prosecuting today, a drunk driver accused of vehicular homicide. Even after six years, the pain still etched his gut, certainly pushed away for the moment, only to come roaring back every time a case file like this crossed his desk. He never would get over it, although he wouldn't admit it to himself. And today was May 23rd, six years to the day…she was gone from his life, as abruptly as a candle flame snuffed. How could it be? Alive and beautiful and loving one minute, and gone the next?

"Jack, are you coming?" Serena's voice intruded on his reverie.

He stared through her, not seeing his blonde haired, blue-eyed assistant. Instead he saw dark hair, light brown eyes...he shook his head and cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm coming." His voice was scratchy. He emerged from the elevator. It's a day in court, just like any other day, he reminded himself…

The woman's voice continued, "For a long time, the princess was in a deep slumber, and her dreams were of her prince. But when she awoke, nothing was the same. She was in a strange place, with strange faces, and they called her a name not her own. Her head hurt, and no one would tell her what happened to her prince. She cried and cried, not understanding the new world she was in. But then someone from her old life came to her, telling her everything would be okay, and that she would always be safe, as long as she followed the rules. 

"But I don't know the rules!" she cried. "I want to go home."

The man and woman from her past told her sadly, "You can't go home, the person that you were is dead."

"I don't believe you," she whispered.

"See for yourself," the woman handed her a newspaper.

As she read the words, she knew they were true. She stared at a picture of her prince; his face was drawn and old as he stood by her grave. And she knew that the man and woman from her past weren't lying, for they were her parents.

For weeks and weeks, she moved through life in a fog, trying to get used to the new people and the new place that was now her home. To the world outside, she was just another new face in town. She got used to her new name and her new hair color. She was going to be a teacher now, and her past seemed far, far away. But, one July day, she got a wonderful gift from her old life. The smiling doctor told her she was going to have a baby. The princess was so happy!"

A little voice broke in, "But, Mommy, why was she happy? She was still alone."

The woman smiled and hugged the child, "Because the baby was made from the love that the prince and princess had together. And if she couldn't have her old life back, she would have a part of her prince with her, to love and take care of always."

"Was the princess scared?" the child wondered.

"At first she was," his mother answered. "But she knew everything happens for a reason, and she hoped that someday she and the prince would be together again, to share the gift of their child. So, she took very good care of herself, learning everything she could about taking care of the child she carried inside her. And on the very first day of the New Year, her baby was born."

"What did she name him?" the little boy knew, but he still loved to ask the question.

"She named him John," the woman smiled. 

"Just like me," the little boy sighed.

Lennie Briscoe was on the witness list today, testifying for the State. Serena questioned him, leaving Jack content to sit and brood in first chair. He didn't trust himself to question anyone today.

Lennie caught up with him in the hall, "Hey, Jack, buy you a club soda?"

Jack mustered a grin, "Thanks but no thanks. Rain check, though."

"It's a bitch, testifying on a drunk driving case today," Lennie said, his face sad.

"That's life," Jack's mouth twisted bitterly, and then he got into the elevator. "See you around, Detective."

A knock sounded on his office door about eight. Serena had left, as had most of the office staff. He stared at the computer screen blankly, trying to get his brain to absorb precedents.

Nora didn't wait to be invited in. "Well, at least you're still breathing."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jack chugged at a bottle of water.

Nora ignored the question, "Take the night off, Jack. The place will hold up fine without you."

"Got too much to do," he brushed her request off.

"I know what day this is, Adam Schiff called and told me," her tone was gentle. 

Jack let out a heavy sigh, "Good old Adam. Keeping the office gossip alive."

"No sin in admitting you loved her," Nora said quietly.

"No, the sin was never admitting it to myself in time," Jack finally said. He turned away, staring out at the rainy night. "I miss her, Nora. Being here makes me feel…closer to her."

"Claire's not here, Jack," Nora got to her feet and walked out, leaving him with his memories. 

The phone rang, intruding his train of thought, "McCoy," he said tersely.

"Hey, Jack, want to grab some dinner?" the voice belonged to Barbara, his friend from NYU.

"No, not tonight," he tried to keep his tone light. "Got a lot of work to do." 

"Sure, Jack," her tone was wry. She knew as well as he did why he wouldn't see her tonight. "You know, you can't be in mourning forever. Don't you think six years is long enough to wear black?"

"Suit's not black, it's navy blue," he quipped.

"You know what I mean," her voice was weary.

"Barbara, I can't talk about this. It's just not a good day. I'm sorry," the last two words were forced.

She sighed, "And I'm not worth the effort."

"I never said that," Jack became impatient.  

"Why don't you just come over and we can talk in person?" she tried to keep her tone gentle.

He slouched in his chair, "I already told you-too much work to do."

"To hell with you, then," she muttered in an uncharacteristic show of temper, and hung up.

Jack sat there, listening to the echo of her words, 'to hell with you;' words that would always haunt him, but for a different reason. For those were the last words he'd said of his beloved Claire, six years ago, almost to the minute. And then she was gone. He stood up and looked out the window again. It was a warm night, and the rain had moved out, leaving behind cloudy skies and wet streets. Just like then, he mused, a lone tear rolling down his cheek. He didn't hear the office door open, failed to see the man who leveled a gun at him. A split second of a gun blast, then searing pain moving through his back to his chest…then blackness, total blackness.

"Read the next part, Mommy!" the little boy insisted.

His mother pressed a kiss onto his forehead, and continued. "From the very first moment she held him, the princess knew she had made the right choice. The baby had his father's eyes, and hair and nose. As the little boy grew, she could also see the prince's humor, intelligence and morality in little John. She tried to live in the present, and she loved the new friends she'd made. Her life was happy and busy, but a part of her never quite forgot the prince, and the life she hoped to have with him."

"Did she ever find the prince?" the little boy asked.

The woman blinked back a few tears, "No, she didn't. But she has never given up hope that someday they'll meet again."

"So they can all live happily ever after?" John wondered.

"Maybe they will, someday," her tone was wistful. "But the real moral of the story is that you can love someone even if you have differences with them. If you find love, hold onto it with all you have, because every second is precious and you never how much time you will have together." She closed the book and set it on the bookshelf next to the bed.

"I'll always hold onto you, Mommy," he hugged her fiercely.

"I know you will," she whispered, snuggling his warm little body close. "Now, good night and sweet dreams." She tucked the covers around him and kissed him again. "I love you, John."

"I love you too, Mommy," his voice was sleepy now.

She closed the door softly behind her, and wandered down the short hallway to her living room. She sank into a chair, tiredly pushing her mahogany curls out of her eyes. Why did he pick that story, tonight of all nights? She mused. Now that he was almost school age, she wondered if he realized the story in the homemade book was all about him. She pawed through the hall closet, her fingers locating the small locked safe in the corner. She opened it and withdrew a photo album and a journal.  Just as she curled up on the sofa to read, the phone rang, intruding on her memories.

The security guard heard the shot, and hurried down the semi-dark hall. He saw a fleeing figure; all dressed in black, open the stairwell door. The guard yelled into his shoulder mike, "Intruder down stairwell D, in pursuit!" The distress call was forwarded to the police. Marty Lowenstein, two weeks from retirement, was loath to follow the intruder down the ten fights of stairs. "Might as well see if he stole anything," he grumbled to himself. 

The guard ambled towards office 1015, seeing the light shining into the hall. Not unusual, EADA McCoy often worked late. But the door was wide open, and there was an eerie silence.

"Mr. McCoy?" Marty moved forward, gun drawn. He found the attorney, wedged between the desk and the credenza, a dark red stain spreading over his pale blue shirt. A wave of nausea washed over the old man, as he rasped into the mike, "Man down, shot! Get a bus!" He reached down to see if he could find a pulse. Jack's neck was still warm, and a faint beat could be felt. "Hurry!" 

The office was soon teaming with EMT's and police officers. Reporters who caught the buzz on their police scanners crowded the first floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the victim. Working frantically, the medics ripped Jack's shirt off, putting pressure on the gaping wound in his back. There was no exit, so the bullet could be anywhere in the chest. His blood pressure was dropping rapidly, and his color was ashen. Two large-bore IV's were started and an ET tube inserted. The ambu bag attached, the EMT's lifted Jack onto the gurney. 

"Let's go, let's go, People!" Joe, the technician calling the code yelled. The hiss-hiss-hiss of the ambu bag and the sound of the gurney rattling down the marble hall added to the shocking scene.

The detectives left behind were silent as they surveyed the crime scene. No sign of forced entry, but that wasn't unusual. A lot of people knew that Jack seldom bothered to lock his office door, even when he was working late. The stacks of files on the desk appeared undisturbed, the books neatly lined the shelves. The only things out of place were a spilled coffee cup, the discarded wrappers and equipment from the resuscitation and the dark puddle on the carpet, slowly coagulating. Crime scene techs were photographing the room, drawing sketches, and cataloging evidence.

Ed Greene cleared his throat, and began to speculate. "From the angle of the victim and the entry in his back, we can assume he had his back to the door, about there." He indicated the bloodstain by the desk.

Lennie Briscoe nodded grimly, "So he may or may not have seen the perp. Any other wits?"

"Just the security guard and he wasn't much help. Only saw the dude from the back, said perp's probably male, about 5'9" to 6-2", average build, dressed in black. And he shot a lawyer. Ought to be a slam dunk." Ed's tone was laconic.

Briscoe scrawled a few notes in his logbook, starting with date and time. The irony of the date was not lost on him. "May God have mercy on his soul," he muttered.

"What?" Ed was puzzled.

"Nothing," Lennie muttered. Too damn much death in this job: first Claire, then his little girl, and now McCoy. He made a wry face. Well, after all, he was a homicide cop. Death was his business. But the bodies he usually saw were strangers, not family or friends. I must be feeling my age, he thought. 

In Sag Harbor, a phone rang in a dark house, startling its owner awake, "Yeah?" 

"Adam, it's Nora," the voice was strained.

"Nora. What the hell time is it?" Adam Schiff groped for the lamp by the bed, squinting at his bedside clock.

"It's a little after eleven," she faltered. "It's Jack-he's been shot."

Adam felt sick. Not Jack. Not like this. He gathered his wits about him. Gruffly, he demanded details.

"He was in the office, working late. The shooter came up behind him, from what the police could tell," she replied.

"Is he…?" Adam couldn't make himself ask the question, the loss of his wife and too many friends too fresh in his mind.

"He's alive, they took him to Hudson General. But he's in bad shape." Nora answered. 

"I'll call my driver, be there as quick as I can," he said brusquely, hanging up the phone. 

He alerted his driver, dressed and hurried to his study. After a brief struggle with his conscience, he found the number secreted in his file cabinet, and dialed decisively. The phone rang once, twice, three times. He was about to hang up when the other party picked up. In a terse voice, he gave her the bad news. Her gasp and sobs tore at him, but he told her, "You can't risk coming here! It's too dangerous!"

The voice on the other end was adamant. She was coming, no matter what. He heard the hum of the dial tone.

The woman felt as though her very existence was crumbling. Why did I wait so long? I should have stopped this charade years ago. To hell with the government and witness protection, she seethed, throwing clothes and cosmetics into a bag, and shaking her son awake.

He never was a happy waker, the one thing he'd inherited from his mother. But once he was more alert, he was full of questions. "Where are we going? On a plane? In the middle of the night? Cool!"

His mother shook her head as she made the reservations, "No, no!" she nearly yelled at the ticket agent. "This is a family emergency. I need the first flight to New York" She crossed her fingers as she thought of a plausible lie. "My husband has been shot. John James McCoy, Assistant district attorney in Manhattan. Yes, yes, I'll hold." To her son she said, "John, please help mommy. Pack a few of your favorite toys and four or five books in your backpack."

John nodded gravely and listened to her well. After his packing was done, he wandered back to the living room. He noticed the open photo album on the sofa and peered at it curiously. There was a picture of his mommy (at least she kind of looked like her), and she had her arms around a man with graying hair. They were wearing party clothes, and they were standing next to a Christmas tree. The man and woman were looking at each other and laughing. He looked at the caption clearly printed next to the picture. Sounding out the words, he read "Jack and Claire, Christmas 1995." He remembered the story his mom often read, and that the prince and princess were named Jack and Claire. He had little time to wonder, as his mother got him dressed. 

Mom's friend Ryan drove them to the airport. John liked Ryan; in fact he hoped that maybe someday Ryan would be his daddy. But last summer Mommy told John that Ryan would just be their friend. John was sleepy as he listened to his mom and Ryan talking in the front seat. They were arguing, even though they tried to keep their voices low.

"You can't honestly think they won't find you," Ryan said.

The woman beside him shook her head, "Think about it-I don't look like the same person I was six years ago…" there was indistinct conversation…"and no one will ever be the wiser." John became bored with the conversation, and fell asleep.

"You just want to see if he still loves you," Ryan was bitter.

She didn't answer, just stared straight ahead, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"He thinks you're dead," Ryan pressed. "How do you know he hasn't married someone else?"

"He hasn't," she said shortly. 

"Don't do this, baby, please! I could give you and John a safe life. I love you both so much," he pleaded.

"I know you do," she whispered. "But if I married you, it would be a lie. Six years ago tonight, I gave up control of my life to other people. I can't do that anymore. Maybe he has forgotten me, and maybe I won 't feel the same way for him. But if he lives through this, he has every right to know he has a son, and for John to know him."

"What do you mean, six years ago tonight?" Ryan was shocked.

"May 23rd, 1996," she answered. "You see, it's a sign. I **have** to go back."

She'd made up her mind. At the airport, Ryan hugged and kissed them both goodbye and watched as they boarded the jet.

Jack was rushed into surgery, while friends and associates gathered in the surgical waiting room. Lennie swallowed cup after cup of coffee, fighting the deja vu. Just like six years ago. God sure had a strange sense of timing. His eyes prowled the small room. Maggie, Jack's daughter, had just arrived from Boston. She was tall and dark-haired, but there the resemblance to her father had stopped. Her face was pale and drawn, but she didn't cry. She sat next to Jack's current girlfriend, a nice-looking woman in her late 40's. Brenda, Belle, what the hell was her name? Barbara. The older woman's eyes were puffy and red from weeping. Adam Schiff, Jamie Ross (who was very soon to have her second child), and Nora. Even that new assistant, Serena was there. Lennie didn't have a terribly high opinion of this latest assistant. Acted too much like a ditzy sorority girl. 

Abbie Carmichael rushed in, still the little Texas tornado. She demanded answers: Where was Jack? Did they get the shooter? How the hell could this happen? She worked just across town for the southern Division of Justice Department. Adam tried to calm her down, but with little success.

Lennie had to stifle a chuckle. Jack would love this-all these women to fuss over him. All they needed was Claire. He felt a sharp stab of sorrow. No, Claire wasn't here with them, and she never would be.  He thought about praying for Jack, but he resisted. All the prayers in the world didn't help poor Claire or his Kathy. He flinched as lightning flashed outside. At least if the Man upstairs took Jack, he'd be with Claire in another life. He fired the coffee cup into the trash and stalked out of the room. 

Claire was appalled at how frail Jack looked. The ET tube was taped in place over his mouth, tubes and wires of all sizes running to machines. The ventilator hummed in a monotonous rhythm, the chest tubes bubbled, while the cardiac monitors beeped softly. She found his free hand and gripped it tightly in hers, the warmth reassuring her. He was still unconscious, in critical condition. Adam pulled some strings so she could visit him on the overnight shift. She felt helpless, much as he must have felt six years ago in this same hospital. "I'm so sorry I put you through that," she whispered in his ear. The nurses were kind, letting her stay and hold his hand most of the night. She talked to him softly, wiping his face with a cool cloth when he ran a fever, massaging his limbs when he became restless. Once he briefly opened his eyes, but she wasn't sure if he recognized her.  She was reluctant to leave at dawn, but she wanted to spend time with John. In addition, daylight increased her chances of being found out, and she wasn't ready for that quite yet.

By day, she would try to rest and play with her son. Adam was a source of comfort, too, as he filled her in on some of the things that had happened during her "demise." Sadly, Adam had lost his beloved wife Bea to a stroke three years before, and Lennie's daughter Kathy had been killed by a drug dealer. He told her about the parade of assistants that had replaced her in the DA's office.

"At least you didn't say 'in his bed'," she added wryly.

Adam looked a bit shocked, but then laughed, "You've grown up a lot, my dear. No, he has not been involved with his assistants after you."

"You think he learned his lesson," she grinned sheepishly.

"He didn't love them like he loved you," Adam sobered. "He's never really gotten over it."

"I didn't know you knew," she stared out the window at the coastline. "About us, I mean."

"I damn near fired you both over it," Adam countered.

She looked surprised, "But you never said a word to me."

"Oh, believe me, I gave Jack chapter and verse over it," Adam replied. "But you know how bullheaded he is."

They laughed together. 

He cleared his throat and said gruffly, "I hope your coming back here means you've made a decision."

"I...uh…yeah, I guess. But it really depends on Jack. I know he's seeing Barbara," she faltered. 

"You're going to let that stop you?" he asked.

"He has to recover first," Claire said firmly, evading his question.

"She was here, Lennie," Jack rasped. "Claire was right here, holding my hand. The only thing…she had red hair. Strange."

"You know, the docs got you on some heavy duty drugs, McCoy," Lennie tried to redirect his questions. "Do you remember anything about the shooting?"

Jack squinted, trying to remember. "I dunno. I remember talking to Barbara on the phone…she said 'to hell with you.'" Tears filled his eyes. "And all I could think was I said that about Claire, right before she…died…and that I wished I could take it back."

"So do you know where you were in the office?" Ed prodded.

"I was looking out the window. It rained that night, just like then, remember?" his voice was fading.

Ed made an impatient noise, but Lennie waved him silent. "Yeah. So did you see the shooter?"

Jack shook his head no. "Just went...black." His eyes closed and he slipped out of consciousness.

Lennie and Ed left the ICU in silence. Once outside, Ed commented, "So McCoy believes in ghosts. Doesn't mean a rat's ass to our case."

"Hey, look Ed," Lennie snapped. "Give the guy a break. How many people can identify who shot them in the back?"

"Okay," Ed backed off. "Who's this Claire he was talking about?"

Lennie slumped in the passenger side of the car, "She was his assistant, and his girlfriend. They had a fight, I guess. He was drunk, got tired of waiting for her. Took a cab home. By the time she showed up, I was pretty well bagged myself. She offered me a lift home, and a drunk driver rammed into us. She was killed."

Ed was horrified, "When did this happen?"

"Six years ago, May 23rd," his partner replied. 

"The anniversary of the accident," Ed mused. "Think there's a connection?"

"Nah," Lennie shook his head. "Just a weird coincidence."

 In spite of the doctors' dire predictions, Jack slowly recovered from his wounds. Every night, she would sit by his bed, talking to him, urging him to get well. She was sure now that he recognized her as Claire, or maybe just a ghost from his past. 

But in the morning light, she would disappear, and Jack was left to wonder if it was all a dream. No one, not Barbara, Maggie, Jamie or any of his other friends believed him when he said Claire was alive. Maybe he was crazy, he sighed. But her voice and her touch seemed so real…

Adam accompanied her into Jack's private room, relieved that the charade was about to be over.

Jack was sitting on a small couch and he stared at Claire in puzzlement, "I wasn't dreaming, you were here."

She couldn't help it, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, "And you didn't believe in ghosts," she teased, sitting next to him.

"But…you were dead. I was in the room. It can't be…" he was baffled.

She started to cry, "I remember you telling me…you loved me…" she whispered.

"How can I know you're really Claire?" he said hoarsely.

"Let's see, I can describe each and everyone of your birthmarks and where they're located," she grinned, shoving her tears away with both hands. 

Adam shuddered, "I think maybe I should leave."

Jack waved a hand, "No, stay. Where did we go on our first date?"

She paled, "You want me to say in front of Adam?"

"He's heard it all, I'm sure," Jack said dryly.

She took a deep breath; "It was the last Saturday in September, 1994. We were working on the Susan Forrest case, day and night, and I was not happy working on a Saturday. When it was lunchtime, you wanted to order something in. I had a fit."

Jack grinned delightedly, remembering.

"I told you we should go on a picnic, and that if you didn't, you were getting no more work out of me," she grinned.

Adam laughed, "I always said she was a smart girl."

Jack chuckled, "Faced with slogging through case law by myself, I didn't have much choice."

"I had brought a picnic basket with chicken salad sandwiches, potato chips, fruit, cookies and wine. We walked to this little park off Gramercy," her voice was dreamy. "The leaves were just turning red, and it was one of those really clear perfect days."

"Sounds innocent enough to me," Adam laughed. "So you had a picnic, went back to the office, business as usual."

"We went back to the office Sunday afternoon," Claire laughed. "Jack's place was a few blocks from the park."

"All right, you win," Jack acquiesced, pulling her into his arms. "But you still haven't explained…"

"How I was resurrected?" she answered.  
"Maybe I can answer that," Adam interrupted. "It goes back to early 1994. Ben Stone quit the office after a witness was murdered. Claire was second chair, and conducted a lot of the witness interviews. We thought the case was dead in the water-witness dead, and Ben resigned. But it turns out that Claire here had evidence that could be used at trial. The feds were just getting ready to approach her, when she was in the accident six years ago."

Jack's grasp on Claire tightened imperceptibly. She tucked her head under his chin and swallowed a tremendous lump in her throat.

Adam stared out the window. "You see, Rostov and Green found out about the evidence the same time the feds did. And they were determined to silence Claire, the way they had Anne Madsen. The night you and Lennie were hit by that drunk driver, another woman was killed. Her name was Celia McCoy, no relation to you, Jack. She was the same age as Claire, same height and weight, and bore more than a passing resemblance.  Her boyfriend lived in the apartment building next to yours. She was on the sidewalk, either leaving or arriving on a visit to her boyfriend. Rostov's goons hit her there. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, an apparent mugging. The boyfriend was cleared, and it officially went down as unsolved."

Jack cleared his throat, "But I was at the hospital. The doctors told me there was no hope…"

"And Claire's mother and stepfather made you leave the room," Adam finished.

Jack's face was wet with tears, "And I never saw…there was the autopsy results, the photos…the funeral."

"Closed casket," Adam said grimly. "The coroner's report was falsified, pictures of Claire's interspersed with the post mortem results on Celia McCoy. The federal government can do anything when it wants to hide something or someone."

"So Celia took my place in the coffin," Claire explained.

"And you let that happen?" Jack was incredulous.

"No!" she pulled away from him. "The feds-got hold of my mom and Mac and made them do it. I was in a coma for about a week after the accident. By the time I realized what had happened, Claire Kincaid was dead and buried, and I was in a DC hospital, with a new identity, Celia McCoy."

"How did you get involved in it, Adam?" Jack wondered.

"I had Claire's statement, and the evidence," he replied. "When I agreed to let them protect Claire's identity, I had no idea they'd go to such lengths." His tone was sorrowful.

"Did you testify, then?" Jack pressed Claire.

"Yeah, about a year later. I was in disguise, and they told me I had to keep my new identity if I wanted to stay alive," Claire explained.

"How did you feel about that?" he asked probingly.

She averted her gaze, "I was devastated. I wanted to...to see you…to have my old life back. I even flew to New York once and watched you during the Sandler trial." Her voice was wistful. 

"But you didn't come back," his voice betrayed his agony. "Why?"

Claire looked over at Adam; "I think I need to tell him this in private."

Adam nodded and ambled towards the door, "Understood," he said gruffly.

Claire moved restlessly about the room, not sure how to find the words. As it turned out, she didn't have to.

Jack watched her intently, "You know there was something on the coroner's report… 'Victim was seven weeks pregnant.' Was that Celia who was pregnant or you?"

"It was me," she choked.

"Was," he repeated. "What happened to the baby?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"I didn't even know at the time of the accident," she began. "And by the time I figured it out, I was nearly four months along."

"I'm only going to ask one more time-what happened to our child?"

She jumped at his angry tone, but her eyes flashed defiantly. "He was born on New Year's Day, 1997, healthy and perfect. He weighed seven pounds, twelve ounces and he looked just like you. He still does." Her voice softened as she knelt at his feet. "You see, it wasn't just about me after that. I had to protect our son."

Jack started to cry, great bone-wrenching sobs. 

Claire held him, whispering brokenly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

When he could speak clearly, he asked, "Where is he?"

"At Adam's, under guard," she answered.

"No, he isn't," Adam stuck his head in the room. "He's right here." He pushed John into the room and closed the door soundly.

The little boy came forward timidly, and took a good look at the man who was a virtual stranger to him.

Jack beckoned him closer, saying, "I won't hurt you son."

John could see the kindness in his eyes and blurted the first thing that came to mind, "Are you my daddy?"

Claire's eyes widened in shock, "How did you know that?"

"Because I saw his picture in your scrapbook, and you always talk about Jack in the story," John said matter-of-factly. 

"Yes, I'm your dad," Jack said, gently picking the child up and setting him on his lap. "What's your name?"

"John James McCoy," he answered.

"Just like mine," Jack showed John the hospital ID bracelet he was wearing.

"Cool!" John beamed, and it seemed to break the ice with the two. Claire backed into the hall, letting father and son get to know each other, something five years delayed.

Adam patted her shoulder as she wept, saying, "You did the right thing, you know you did."

"But I should have trusted him, Adam. His own son…" she sobbed harder.

They were so absorbed in their conversation; they didn't see Lennie's approach.

"So McCoy wasn't hallucinating," he said hoarsely. 

"Aw, Lennie, I…" she hugged him, not able to say another word.

"It's okay, kid," Lennie said in a world-weary tone. "There'll be time later."

And there **was** time to sort it all out, although it was almost a year in coming. The man who shot Jack McCoy was directly linked to Rostov and Green.  Once they got him to spill his guts, the rest was easy. The motive behind the attempt on Jack's life was to flush out Claire Kincaid. Green and Rostov were retried, this time for attempted murder. They never served a day longer in jail, however. During the trial, the machinations of the federal government and their role in concealing Celia McCoy's murder came to light. Michael Thompson, Celia's boyfriend, shot Rostov and Green to death outside the Federal courthouse. Thompson then turned the gun on himself.

Claire Kincaid returned to New York with her son, and returned to the District Attorney's office part time. She shared office space with another ADA, and occasionally worked with Jack McCoy. On December 24th, 2002, Jack and Claire were married in the living room of Adam Schiff's Sag Harbor residence. 

A few weeks later, Jack and Claire were tucking little John into bed, reading his favorite story.

"And how does it end?" Jack asked, glancing over at his new wife.

"And they lived happily ever after!" the little boy laughed.

And so they did!


End file.
